


All the Oceans

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: And no one but Laurence knows what's going on, Gen, Wherein Temeraire is a Japanese Sui-Riu instead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Accidentally bonded to a Japanese Water-Spitter, the navy decides to promote Laurence to a bigger ship and let Temeraire accompany him at sea.They do not, unfortunately, inform his crew of this, and misinformation abounds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably just going to be a collection of tiny chapters, *hopefully* in some vague order. Eh

Sir Howe calls Temeraire a _Sui-Riu._

Laurence has never seen a dragon of the like, and certainly this makes sense, if Temeraire is Japanese. Howe exclaims for ages over his short wings, and waddling legs, and his shockingly overlong body. Despite initial assurances that the dragon's limbs would become proportioned over time, Laurence had begun to suspect he was rather deformed; now the thought leaves him a little chagrined.

Most famous, though, is the news that Temeraire is a water-spitter.

“We've never had one in England!” says Howe with delight. “The aviators will be delighted... Oh, it is a pity he cannot fly.”

A dragon that cannot fly? The wings are small, surely, but... “Not at all?”

“Well, some have been known to fly a _very_ short distance, or to manage an awkward kind of glide; but generally, no.”

Laurence hides his dismay, and Temeraire says blandly, “That is quite alright; I think I prefer the water, anyway.”

The aviators who finally arrive from Dover the next morning are less sanguine.

“How would we even get him back?” mutters Admiral Portland, baffled.

“He could swim,” Laurence points out, and the man looks almost affronted.

Temeraire is fascinated by the admiral's huge Regal Copper, Laetificat, a burly and riot-colored creature who looks rather more like the type of dragon Laurence had expected when he found a giant egg in the _Amitie's_ hold.

“I don't even know what we would _do_ with you,” Portland adds, a bit baffled.

Temeraire bristles. “I imagine I would fight, of course! I am an excellent fighter. Or, I will be; Laurence said so.”

“Hmm,” is the only reply to this. “ - Well, perhaps it is best you are with a navy-man; we _did_ bring over an aviator, who thought to take you on; but he wouldn't want to be chained to the sea anyway.”

“As though I would have wanted _him,”_ Temeraire cries, and Laurence thinks that he rather has a point.

The aviators finally declare that they need to go back to England for further instructions. “And, listen, I did not mean to offend,” the admiral tells Laurence before they leave, with warming earnestness. “Only, it is damned strange to see a dragon that cannot fly - but it is still famous to have him at all, of course. I have an idea that... well. Whatever is decided, know that you both will always be welcome at the coverts.”

* * *

 

More than a week passes, and then Laurence leaves Temeraire on the beach and goes to see Croft when he spots the Winchester flying overhead.

“Yes,” Croft is saying when he enters. “Yes, I quite agree...”

“Sir?”

A courier looks at him, a bit wide-eyed, and hastily departs.

“Just the man,” says Croft absently. “Hmm.. yes...” He seems to be inspecting a letter. “...Yes, I quite see! Captain. You will not be going back to England; no.” He mumbles a bit more to himself, and then declares: “The dragon is a sea-beast, is it not? Congratulations, Captain Laurence; you retain your post.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“It cannot fly, your beast, but the brass back in London have hashed things out. If the aviators do not much want you, I am sure we can put the beast to use. Imagine how fast he could take a prize, right from under-water...”

Laurence can almost see the man calculating his portion of these imaginary shares. “I see,” he says flatly. He does not, however, protest; certainly this is better news than he has hoped for. Isn't it?

Eventually, it is decided that all other officers will be told that Temeraire was handed-off to an aviator, and Laurence will merely return to his duty.

“Because a secret,” says Croft, with annoying smugness, “Is most secret when even your friends aren't aware of it...”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember your crew, Laurence? You have a crew. They are very confused.

“It's going to get away,” someone sighs.

Johnson is only one of many crewmembers on the _Endeavour_ 's deck who pause to stare longingly after the disappearing French corvette. Ships like this are not slow, but neither can they properly chase down the sort of fast little cutters that are built for speed.

Then a voice interrupts, loud and clear over the water: “No. She will sink.”

Everyone turns toward the new captain.

Everyone was a little baffled by Captain Laurence's recent promotion. He is a good captain, by all accounts, and was likely to rise higher over time; but somehow he leaped all the lists and got assigned to an excellent 72-gun ship after commanding nothing better than a little frigate. Johnson has heard rumors that a dragon egg was found on his last journey and safely delivered to England, which would certainly gain him some favor – but not _this_ much favor.

Well. None of his business, anyway.

An awkward silence settles over the deck for a moment. First-Lieutenant Howle clears his throat. “Shall we add sail?” he prompts.

“No.”

“...Shall we. Pursue?”

“No.”

“...Shall we do _anything?”_

The captain considers this question very seriously for a moment, briefly shading his eyes to squint against the sun. “...No, I think it is managed.”

So the crew does nothing, milling and muttering in confusion. The captain, though, seems to be waiting. Eventually they quiet, turning their eyes seaward and straining to see what he sees. A petty-officer is the first to gasp, and point, and yell, “Bloody 'ell, it _is_ sinking!”

The shout is unnecessary. They can all see it now, the ship slowly tilting over its own bow by some strange power. Distant, tiny figures scatter over the French deck, screaming in confusion.

The captain looks satisfied. He mutters something that Johnson can almost hear: “...imagined it would be small enough...”

Then, he seems to finally notice the crew's stares.

The captain hurriedly clears his throat and steps forward. “Lieutenant Howle, ready the launches; we must retrieve the survivors. And congratulations, gentlemen,” he adds pointedly. “You will all be getting a share of reward for the corvette's sinking.”

...A weak, confused cheer runs the deck.

Johnson joins in.

And, he can't be sure, but it looks for a moment that the captain seems rather embarrassed...

 


	3. Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Laurence dies, probably

Only two months out of port, and they've lost the captain.

The embarrassing part, thinks Acting-Captain Howle, is that no one's quite sure when it happened. They skirmished with two French ships, and were of course victorious; one was taken as a prize, but either a lamp was knocked over or else the French set the second on fire purely to spite them. In all the confusion, while bodies were being tugged from the wreck, Howle found himself giving the orders. The captain was part of the boarding party for the flaming ship (called the _Napoleon,_ may its fate be echoed on its namesake!) and it had seemed personally reasonable, in all the chaos, for him to be elsewhere. People were jumping from the _Endeavour_ to the captured _Destin,_ scrambling in and out of launches to grab at Frenchman who'd jumped in the water, and, well -

In all the resulting chaos, the spot of the sunken _Napoleon_ was left drifting far behind them. It is almost two hours later that Howle realizes no one can find the captain because _the captain isn't with them._

This is not going to look good in his report.

* * *

 

Two days later, on the first Sunday after the battle, all crewmen who can be spared line the deck in their best clothes. The officers line up by the railing with Howle himself, and with the ship's very young chaplain, who looks a bit overwhelmed at having the attention of so many faces.

Technically the service is for all men lost in the battle – a very small number, thankfully – but it is for the captain, especially.

The chaplain starts them off by listing the dead. At the end of the service Howle will say some special words for the loss of their captain. His own speech must unfortunately must follow the navy's guidelines almost word-by-word, for he hasn't has much chance to know the man yet.

There are two bodies, sewn up in canvas shrouds, laid out on the deck as the chaplain spoke over them. Two more men died on the _Napoleon_ and have not been recovered.

Captain Laurence presumably met the same fate.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,” the chaplain intones. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall... never... die...”

The chaplain stops.

Howle waits patiently, face blank. Around them the respectful crew starts to exchange glances, and after a few seconds stretch on Howle begins to think the poor lad has forgotten the prayer. Howle, unfortunately, has been through enough similar ceremonies to fill in the blanks.

“I know that my redeemer liveth,” he prompts quietly.

The chaplain ignores him, face white. “ _Captain Laurence?”_

A sudden cough makes everyone jolt.

Captain Laurence climbs over the opposite railing, clearing his throat wetly. Damp and mildly-burnt clothes cling to him. As terrified men scramble away, Laurence looks up. Sees Howle, and the chaplain, and the canvas-clad bodies. “...Oh, dear,” he says. “I apologize sincerely, Sir, for interrupting the funeral.”

Everyone gapes.

“...You're alive,” says Howle weakly. He means it to sound pleased, but he can manage no feeling at all besides blank shock.

“Yes,” says Laurence after a pregnant pause. Probably he has just realized he is interrupting his _own_ funeral. “I was briefly trapped on the _Napoleon,_ and it appears I remained behind when it sunk - ”

“But how did you return?” a midshipman blurts.

Howle, like everyone else, waits for an answer. Captain Laurence tugs briefly at his neckcloth. Glances around at their expectant faces.

“...I swam.”

“Swam, Sir. And - caught up to the ship?” asks Howle desperately. He turns the words over in his head again and again, thinking perhaps the shock is what stops him from understanding.

“...Yes.” The captain's face seems a little red. He repeats: “I swam. That is what happened. I beg you all to continue the service; I will join you and say a few words, Lieutenant, once I have dressed properly.” He tugs absently at his water-drenched cravat, bowing his head a little in apology, and sloshes off toward his cabin.

Howle nods slowly and absently as this happens. After a minute he turns to the baffled crew, struggling for composure.

“...Well.” Howle tells the chaplain at last. “...Continue, then.”

The _new_ report he must write, Howle thinks distantly, is going to be even harder than he feared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Laurence spent these two days being ferried on the surface with Temeraire and trying to convince the dragon to bring him back, because Temeraire cannot BELIEVE anyone would just leave his captain behind. Burning ship or not. Clearly the Endeavour can't be trusted with him, and Laurence should definitely get a new crew.  
> Laurence finally convinces him to go back by pretending his cough is more severe - do you want him to get PNEUMONIA and DIE, Temeraire?!  
> Anyway


	4. Latin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence reads aloud. Unfortunately, no one knows why.

Pat gets up at midnight because he's restless. In nights after, he will close his eyes tightly whenever a wandering urge strikes him, and he will repeat: “It ain't worth it. It ain't worth it. Just go back to sleep, _it ain't worth it.”_

Today, though, he has yet to be frightened. He rises up and makes his way through the hot and cramped room, seeking fresh air above-deck. It makes him feel better to look out over the dark sea and see the wide sky above, frozen and serene.

But the image is broken by something – a voice, which he almost recognizes.

Pat pauses. Stands very still. Softly, over the shush of waves and the continual creek of the ship, it sound like someone is talking against the wind. This itself isn't strange – someone is always talking on the ship, and walls are thin. But the words are low and strange, and despite himself Pat turns and starts to follow them.

He finds himself near the back of the deck. Under the light of the full moon stands a lone figure, and it takes Pat a moment to recognize it. Captain Laurence leans against the leeward rail to face the sea, one hand cradling an old and worn book. He's not whispering at all, Pat realizes now. Closer, and able to hear clearly, the captain's voices seems loud and strong and fluid – even if the sounds, themselves, are strange.

_“Urgeri potest corpus a vi centripeta composita ex pluribus viribus. In hoc casu sensus Propositionis est, quod vis illa quæ ex omnibus componitur, tendit ad punctum ...”_

Pat shudders. The captain doesn't seem to notice him. Slowly, walking backwards with the odd and prickling sense that the captain will _know_ if he looks away, he makes his way back to the ladder to go belowdecks.

On the way, he bumps into someone.

Pat jolts so badly he almost falls over, and feels even worse, somehow, when he realizes he's walked straight into an officer. “Sir!” he gasps. “Apologies, Sir!”

But the boy – Midshipman James – doesn't seem bothered. Instead he only looks at Pat grimly. “You've seen him, then?”

Pat doesn't know what to say.

“Does it every full moon,” James breathes. The words seem to echo around the quiet ship, and Pat, involuntarily, takes a step back. “And other times, whenever there's light...” he trails off. Falls silent a moment.

Then:

“It's best not to speak of it.”

With this ominous pronouncement, James brushes past him. And Pat, shuddering, hurries belowdeck to his nice and sane berth.

His mates are _never_ going to believe this.

 


	5. Foggy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little fog would help hide the Endeavour nicely. Generally this sort of observation is not actually helpful, but poor Lieutenant Howle is continually surprised on this ship.

Lieutenant Howle steps around a pair of crewmen leaning over the railing. “To your posts,” he says sharply.

One ducks away immediately. The other man, Baynes, lingers. “Sir,” he says, “do you think they will be able see us?”

The question has been muttered for the past quarter-hour throughout the ship. “Speculation will in no way help us, Mr. Baynes,” says Howle. In truth, he does not have any sure answer himself. “To your work, now, or I shall have a word with Mr. Fells.”

The mention of the stern bosun makes Baynes scatter more quickly than any severe look. Howle makes a mental note to watch Baynes – far too bold, and always in the wrong circumstances, that one – before moving up to join Captain Laurence on the quarterdeck.

Captain Laurence is peering over the side, eyeing the two French Man-of-Wars that have been trailing them since sunrise, slipping in and out of sight. Today's low fog makes visibility poor, but one cannot depend on that to last. “Mr. Howle,” says the captain finally, “I expect the fog will lift to our disadvantage within another two hours; do you concur? I would not wish to take our chances with them.”

“No, Sir,” says Howle. “Shall I tell the navigator to adjust our heading?”

Turning toward England would force them to turn and skirt the French dangerously, quite likely hastening a confrontation. But they will also have greater odds of running into another English ship that might lend aid, and Howle would think the gamble worth any risk.

Laurence frowns, though, and the look on his face makes Howle shift uneasily.

There is a particular expression he is beginning to recognize on the captain – unconscious, he imagines, and fortunately rare – that tends to forebode strange occurrences and the sorts of flying rumors that have made Howle begin inspecting the holds, often with the ship's chaplain, for 'blasphemous' materials. Not being particular zealous, Howle mostly uses the opportunity to scold men for having superstitious lucky-charms or such rot – even if he cannot fully blame them their fears or paranoia.

Captain Laurence is normally a very decent captain; he is diligent in his duties, strict but fair, and pleasant in his manners.

But there are times...

“I suppose we have many options,” says Laurence at last. “But the best thing would be to just make the fog thicker; I think that should serve very well. If we can be sure of hiding our passage, we might slip back past them and distance ourselves before it lifts entire. Do you agree?”

Howle contemplates the fact that Captain Laurence seems to be seriously considering _making fog_ as a way out of their predicament. With anyone else he would ask for clarification; but remembering several other odd instances on this ship, he simply says, “That would do very well, Sir, if it could be managed.”

Laurence seems satisfied. “Very good,” he says. “All the lanterns are doused already? Pray go below and tell the men again to be most quiet; we can make no noise, none at all. I will speak with the navigator.”

So Howle goes below. Before he descends, though, he glances back and finds the Captain has not moved, but is instead leaning over the ship's rails, head bent low to the ocean as his mouth moves quietly.

Taking a breath, Howle goes below.

When he returns, minutes later, the deck is eerily silent. Howle steps up beside a midshipman who acknowledges him belatedly. Half the crew above-deck have been forced into stillness for this quiet passage, and in the lull they are all occupied with the same thing – that is, staring at the sudden cloud of mist that seems to be rising straight from the ocean.

It is not a normal fog, which should hang mute and still in the air. It is more like to steam, and indeed Howle finds himself tugging his collar, abruptly conscious of a sudden heat. There is a strange and muted sound from somewhere nearby, a noise not unlike a hissing teakettle. Howle moves to peer over the leeward side of the ship, and becomes suddenly certain that the sound comes from below the ocean's surface.

Billows of smoke shroud the ship; where before they could at least see the waters a few hundred meters distant; even that clarity is now gone. Howle is very certain that they will not be sighted by the French ship – though he wonders if their new position, entrenched in an column unnatural mist, will not be even more noticeable.

At the end of things, they slip by the French unnoticed. Howle does not ask the captain how he managed the matter, and he resignedly intersperses the day with half a dozen surprise inspections which allow him to break up gaggles of gossipers. Not that it will do much good.

Howle still had no idea what's going on, but at this rate, he may need to have a talk with the captain about discretion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence really needs to stop stressing his crew.  
> If it seems that Laurence is, er, being particularly non-discrete, that will be addressed later ;)


	6. Nightly Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurence visits Temeraire

Two midshipmen greet Laurence when he strides onto deck, only twitching small frowns at his odd dress – neat but casual clothes, and a thick jacket. Nodding to them, he moves up to inspect the forecastle, where he is left alone. A bare sliver of the moon hangs over the sky, and with a quick glance behind, Laurence doubles back to douse the nearest lantern. Thus hidden, he easily pulls himself over the ship's rail, swings down, and hangs over the edge.

A moment later the water ripples. “You are late,” hisses a reproving voice.

Despite the tone Laurence is lifted away from the ship in gentle talons and deposited with care. “I apologize, my dear,” Laurence says, stroking Temeraire's soft and water-sleek hide. “A minor issue with some of the officers.”

“Oh, were midshipmen Dales and Smith quarreling again?” Temeraire asks. “They sound very silly, Laurence. I am not sure at all that I approve of your crew; I wish I might meet them myself.”

Temeraire has no notion of volume at the best of times, and Laurence glances around quickly. “Pray let us get away from the ship,” he requests. “And I will tell you all about it.”

Temeraire willingly obeys, and Laurence is obligated to explain the whole argument. “And so I have put them on watch together,” he concludes; “I expect they will either reconcile, or come to blows, in which case I shall at least be able to take more decisive action.”

Temeraire performs that odd snake-like wriggle through the water which Laurence has recognized to mean that he _wants_ to dive, but knows Laurence would not take well to the experience; he nearly drowned more than once before impressing upon Temeraire precisely how briefly a human might survive under water.

“I have been investigating the deeper parts of the ocean,” says Temeraire presently. “ - I know I must stay nearby in case the French show up, but I promise you I would see them from very far away. Also, did you know there are ships down below the sea? Look, I brought you treasure that fell with it.”

Temeraire twists his head and holds up something he must have been holding all day. Laurence accepts the strange little gold necklace, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“You will make a very excellent treasure hunter, I am sure,” he says.

Temeraire seems pleased. “I thought you might wear it,” he suggests, “To appear a bit more distinguished – which is not to say that you look poorly,” the dragon amends, “but merely that you do not stand out among the crew quite enough from the water...”

“That is rather the point of uniforms,” says Laurence dryly. “I do not think I can wear it, but it is very nice nonetheless.”

Temeraire suddenly quickens his pace, bobbing and rising through the ocean with his strange S-like pattern. Laurence bends as sea-spray slushes over him, wincing. He invariably ends up damp and shivering from these excursions, but he would not keep to his ship for all the world.

Suddenly Temeraire twists around, heading back toward the faint outline of the _Endeavour_ on the horizon.

“I have been looking for other sea-dragons,” Temeraire says, “But I have found none; only some very small serpents that would not merit the name, only twenty or thirty feet at the largest.”

Laurence hides his alarm at that revelation when he asks, “Were you able to communicate with them?”

“No; but I suppose they might use some other language,” Temeraire says. “And anyway, one cannot precisely _talk_ beneath the ocean, so perhaps they communicate in another fashion; I will have to keep trying.” Temeraire sighs. “But oh, Laurence, it can be very _dull_ to be only swimming and swimming all day, and so slowly, too. I wish I might talk to you when it is light.”

Though Laurence wishes the same, he privately thinks this arrangement might be unintentionally beneficial in ways the admiralty could not have foreseen; namely, keeping Temeraire a secret stops him from swimming beside the ship and trying to gossip with the crew. Laurence is sure Temeraire _can_ be taught discipline, but he feels no one could rather blame him for neglecting the dragon's moral education when they can only meet at night.

Still, Temeraire has a right to be frustrated. Fortunately Laurence has one piece of news that might lift his spirits. “You will recall that I have been writing to Admiral Lenton, of the Aerial Corps. I think you will find this a good distraction, my dear; we will be stopping by Dover in a month or so for repairs and supplies, and he has already spoken to a few of the captains there. We thought you might like to meet some of Britain's dragons.”

Temeraire perks up immediately. “Oh, I would!” he says. “I am sure they will be good to talk with, even if they cannot swim very well.”

“Well, we must not hold that against them,” says Laurence with amusement; Temeraire only nods, agreeing. “I will try to see you more, dear, but I am afraid we must return.”

He must sleep, after all; and of course Laurence always has the fear that he will be called upon at night, and found missing, which would throw the whole ship to distress. Reluctantly Temeraire follows the dark shape of the _Endeavour_ through the water, sighing.

Laurence spends a few minutes stroking the dragon's head and promising to find a study on sea-monsters when they next go to port. Then Temeraire lifts him toward the ship, and Laurence grasps onto the railing with his cold hands. Temeraire slips into the water as Laurence heaves himself up the side, stumbling to his feet.

Across the forecastle midshipmen Smith and Dales, evidently in the middle of their rounds, stand staring at him.

Laurence brushes back a wet strand of hair from his eyes, folds his hands behind his back, and nods.

“...Captain,” Dales greets belatedly. Smith just keeps staring.

“Anything to report, gentlemen?” Laurence asks. Water drips quietly from his coat onto the deck.

“No, Sir,” says Dales dutifully.

Laurence makes a note of the man; composure is an excellent trait in an officer. “Very good,” he says, “as you were,” and strides past them in the direction of his cabin.

Perhaps he should apply to Sir Howe for more books on water-dragons, Laurence thinks, already composing the letter in his head. Temeraire would certainly appreciate it...

 


	7. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a battle, and Temeraire brings some new friends

The battle is not going well.

Lieutenant Howle has noted – in a distant way that he doesn't care to linger on – more than one instant where enemy ships are sharply rocked, or suddenly find themselves with holes in the lower hull, taking water. The captain's odd influence, he assumes.

But the _Endeavour_ been pinned down – chased first by two fine frigates, right into the waiting grasp of three more ships, one of them a three-deck terror, the _Republic,_ boasting more than a hundred guns.

As soon as the sails came in sight Laurence changed their course yet again – but they were unable to escape. Any sane captain, Howle thinks, would have surrendered.

Captain Laurence is possibly not sane. Under anyone else, the crew would protest, would exude terror – but perhaps the captain's odd luck has made the men optimistic, led them to believe Laurence must have some trick up his sleeve.

But Howle is starting to know Laurence, and under his calm exterior the man's eyes are harried.

“We must lower the flag, Sir,” Howle urges – quietly, of course, so the men do not hear. They are in a brief lull – three of the ships adjusting their courses for a broadside, moving into a line, while the two smaller vessels circle around for who knows what purpose. Thus far the _Endeavour_ has suffered multiple hits; one of the masts is hanging crazily by its splinters, another sail has been pierced straight through, and the hull is bloody with the wounds of men caught surprised by the wreckage. Someone is screaming, across the deck; one of the cannon-balls shot poor Smiths right through the leg, which Howle spots lying a dozen feet from its owner.

Laurence does not look at Howle. “Get this man to a surgeon,” he orders a few sailors, gesturing to Smiths. Then he answers, “No, we will not go yet; there is still one possibility. He only needs a few minutes.”

“He?” Howle questions, and then -

Yells and shouts rise from the ship – from every ship – as green shapes burst out of the water. Snakes, Howle thinks automatically; but snakes are not twenty feet long, forty feet. Snakes do not weave up and under the water, hunting entire ships like limping deer.

The sea-serpents, Howle realizes, are ignoring the _Endeavour_ entirely.

But they aren't ignoring the French. One of the longer fellows – greenish, with blue and purple striations – starts to wrap himself around the smallest ship. Howle can hear the foreign crew screaming even across the ocean. Two of the smaller beasts fling themselves from the water to land amongst the crew on the first-rate, creating instant chaos.

Laurence surveys this scene grimly. All at once the tables have turned; the French ships are floundering, and meanwhile the _Endeavour_ bobs silently and does nothing. No action is necessary.

“Lieutenant,” says Laurence at last. “Keep us close to the French; send someone to tell me when they surrender. I return after inspecting our damages from the battle.”

“Aye, Sir,” says Howle weakly. And the captain goes.

* * *

 

They escort the ships to port, of course, simply because spreading prize-crews among five ships would deplete the crew entirely. It should be a triumphant occasion, and indeed some of the men are at least a little cheered at the thought of their coming prize-money; but there is still an odd air of shock among the crew.

Howle, contemplating this as he speaks to Laurence in the captain's cabin, decides that there is no recourse; he must broach the subject, at last.

“Sir,” he says. “About the battle – the serpents, I mean.”

“Ah,” says Laurence, a little embarrassed. “Well, I suppose the matter is out.”

“Yes,” says Howle blankly.

“I do not suppose that there has been... talk, among the crew?”

Howle tries _very hard_ to keep his face expressionless. “I think they are mostly glad that your... unorthodox tactics have worked in our favor.”

Laurence clears his throat. “Yes, well, we have... perhaps not been as discrete as the admiralty wants.” Howle does not want to imagine how the admiralty is involved in this – and, abruptly, he abandons all plans of pressing the matter. “And likely it is best, for now, to keep the matter as speculation, which our enemies cannot confirm. But it is reassuring that the crew does not object to our particular arrangement.”

Howle rather suspects that no one would _dare_ object. “Aye, Sir,” he repeats, miserable.

He still has no answers. Howle is starting to suspect that he does not _want_ answers.

At least there will be plenty of prize-money; Lieutenant Howle plans to spend his time at port getting very, very drunk.

 


	8. t e e t h

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the navy Laurence manages to get held hostage. Temeraire is not pleased.

It is not as though Vallier hates the British.

He was a sheep-farmer before the Revolution; but the family farm was destroyed during a series of rioting, and their fences smashed, and then most of the sheep run off. His family turned from respectable penny-pinchers into the worst sort of street-urchins. Vallier joined the navy at once and has never regretted it; he can at least send a little money back, now and then, so the threats of combat always seems worth it.

Vallier does not have any personal opinions about the war; but now, captured on the _Endeavour,_ he thinks wistfully of his family back in France. He wonders if they will hear of his imprisonment at all, or only wonder at his absence when the money stops arriving.

He also spares a moment of envy for Lieutenant Bourreau, who seems quite a bit more likely to get home before the war's end.

Two Marines loom over Vallier and three fellow other French prisoners as they huddle on the foredeck, half-forgotten in the chaos. It was their turn to stretch their legs – a kind courtesy from Captain Laurence – when Lieutenant Bourreau, their only officer present, used the moment to swipe a knife and tackle Captain Laurence against the deck.

Bourreau broke parole, of course. Hetrayed his honor and all the decent civilities of war by trying to flee after swearing to be complaisant. Vallier, personally, has never thought much of honor or sworn-vows; he thinks glumly that he would rather be in Paris, and an oath-breaker, than an English prisoner.

But no one cares to hear _his_ opinion, of course. The English are much more concerned for Captain Laurence.

The captain was hit on the head when he fell; blood streaks his face, and he seems too dazed to make much protest when Bourreau gives the crew his terms. Holding a knife to the captain's throat, Bourreau tells First Lieutenant Howle that the Endeavour must lower all sails; that she must signal to the other prize-ships and tell them to do the same. Once the sails are fully stripped it will take an hour at least to get the vessels under way, and by that time, Bourreau intends to be away.

As the sails are stripped Bourreau gives more demands, and two small boats are quietly lowered into the water. Bourreau plans to exit with the English captain on one vessel, floating the other behind; he will detach the second boat and leave Captain Laurence once outside the gun-range of the _Endeavour_ and thus secured of his safety.

Privately, Vallier thinks these terms are still useless. A ship of the _Endeavour's_ rating would be able to outpace Bourreau's little boat even with a full day's grace, much less an hour. But he is feeling bitter that Vallier did not even _try_ to bargain for the safety of his comrades, and anyway, he expects the furious English guards wouldn't much appreciate his insight.

Lieutenant Howle orders two launches lowered into the sea, keeping a careful eye on Bourreau and the injured Captain. The other prisoners are utterly forgotten, and no one ever imagines that a poor sheep-herder's son might be fluent in English. Vallier listens as Howle tells Bourreau, “I remind you that you have given your word not to fight us; when you are captured again we will not be lenient. Give up the Captain, and we may forgive this scene.”

But Bourreau only shakes his head. “Stay back,” he orders sharply, and begins slowly dragging the captain over to the edge of the ship.

If Captain Laurence were more conscious, he could probably escape Bourreau's awkward maneuvering. As it is he still seems half-stunned, which only concerns the English-sailors further. Vallier idly wonders if the man will die. Head-wounds can be serious.

Tension rises as the two boats drift further away. It is only when they are away from rifle-range – two distant figures on the sea – that Bourreau keeps his word. A sigh of relief goes round the deck as Bourreau shoves Captain Laurence's limp form into the second boat, which is then cut loose. Lieutenant Howle at once orders a set of men to prepare a new launch, and thus retrieve him.

Except then something strange happens.

Bourreau's boat is still visible. But now something black swirls under his launch, rocking it sharply. And Vallier, peering around the shocked Marines, sees something impossible.

Glinting white thorns rise up around the boat in a wide circle. It takes a moment for the sight to register, for Vallier to realize that the ten-meter diameter is a row of _teeth._ They vanish briefly, repositioning, and a huge fang peeks through the lapping waves beyond Bourreau. Black jaws briefly slip over the water, accompanied by two twitching tendrils, before those impossible teeth rear up and close over the boat – and Bourreau's body.

An anguished scream bolts across the water for half a second, silencing the _Endeavour._ In one smooth motion Bourreau is yanked back into the water. The surrounding sea reddens ominously - silence. A few seconds later a shape bobs back up. No, two shapes – a body vertically severed down the middle.

One of the Marines curses. Vallier, frozen, keeps watching the water. Nothing else happens for a long moment. Then, apparently of its own volition, Captain Laurence's solitary boat starts drifting back toward the _Endeavour._

Across the ship Lieutenant Howle clears his throat. “Mr. Martin,” he addresses one of the men. “Please see that Captain Laurence is retrieved once the launch... reaches us.” He notices the prisoners. “And, good god, get those three down below; we do not need another escape attempt.”

So Vallier does not see what happens, after; he is taken below and confined in a room with the other French prisoners from the _Republic._ His comrades whisper confused questions to those who were on the deck, all of them shell-shocked. Alone among them Vallier has the wits to press closer to the door, listening for soft voices outside as the English Marines whisper about Captain Laurence.

When they move away, he turns and relates their rumors to his own crew, pale and wide-eyed.

Vallier suspects that Lieutenant Bourreau might have gotten off lightly after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost at port! Temeraire gets to meet other dragons soon


	9. shoreleave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Lieutenant Gartner, of the HMS Surprise, hears some odd rumors about his old shipmate Laurence...

“He's a witch,” someone says.

“No, my grandmum was a witch and she was a sodding poor one. Wouldn't have been calling up fog or destroying ships, is for sure. I think he made a pact with the devil.”

“He's a mermaid,” insists another voice.

“He has _legs,_ you idiot.”

“Mermaid magic! Why do you think he swims so much at night?”

 

 

Lieutenant Gartner shares a bemused look with Lieutenant Connors. They're both on brief leave from the _Surprise,_ and had thought to share a quiet drink before separating for their own personal ideas of holiday. (Handling finances and picking up some novels, on Gartner's end; hunting out a likely molly-house, for Connors). This particular bar doesn't seem to be hosting anyone else from the _Surprise,_ but the men hunkered two tables down are instantly recognizable as sailors.

“The chaplain says there are no 'infernal powers' following us,” says one of the sailors; he sounds like he's giving a quote.

“The chaplain thinks the captain is the Second Coming,” his crewmate scoffs. “I hear he wrote a letter to the church, after that whole mess with the funeral.”

“Maybe they're working together,” another suggests.

“Nah – the reverend is a coward, and anyway Captain Laurence hardly seems to need _help,_ does he?”

Gartner startles again.

He was pleased – though surprised, along with everyone else – when the promotions came out and it was reported that his old shipmate Will Laurence, barely a captain for three years, was being given command of a 72-gun ship. It was a shocking step up, and he spent a night or two speculating with fellow officers on the _Surprise_ about the kind of hushed-up victory that must have warranted it.

Mentions of magic and enchantments never entered that debate, and he listens with growing incredulity as the sailors – evidently given liberty from the _Endeavour –_ continue to trade theories.

“Maybe a sea-monster fell in love with him?”

“What?”

“He's always whispering to the sea, calling it 'my dear' - “

“Oh, he's just one of those romantic types. I've heard him reading poetry at night, too, it's nothing.”

Someone mutters, “Those serpents sure weren't nothing,” and an uncomfortable silence falls over the table.

“Well,” says one of the men at last. “He is on our side, at any rate; and I do not much care about the specifics as long as he terrorizes the French more than us.”

Everyone hastily agrees, and the group soon disperses. Gartner shakes his head, puzzled.

“Did you hear that?” asks Connors. “Who were they talking about, now? Those sorts of rumors can be dangerous.”

“William Laurence,” Gartner says. “And I cannot think of a man less likely to inspire a superstitious crew.”

“Oh – Laurence, yes. I served with him as a mid,” Connors reflects. “He was a Lieutenant then – good sort. Promoted off-ship a few months after I arrived, though, so I couldn't say.”

“Well I am rather certain the man is not a _witch,”_ Gartner snorts. Then he spots another face, also familiar. “But, just the one to explain things – Michael Howle! Good man, how have you been?”

Lieutenant Howle, who had been striding toward the bar with a grim air, startles to be so addressed. The man glances around, for some reason, before walking over; perhaps he is looking for his men, Gartner thinks. He rises to shake Howle's hand. “Haven't seen you in, what, four years? Five?”

“Since the Nile,” says Howle, a little blankly. “Yes. Good to see you.”

An awkward silence falls for a moment. Connors clears his throat, and Gartner hurriedly introduces him. “And this would be the second officer of the _Surprise,_ Lieutenant Alan Connors.”

“Pleasure,” says Howle flatly.

Connors, fortunately, is not a man easily deterred by bad manners; or perhaps he doesn't notice them. Gartner has never been sure.

“You have come at just the time, Sir,” Connors says. “For we were having a discussion about your captain; I must tell you, we have heard the strangest rumors today!”

They tell Howle all that they recall; it is important for officers to know about the fears and superstitions of the crew, and it sounds like the _Endeavour_ could have a serious problem, if those odd sailors from before were representatives of their comrades.

But Howle does not seem _concerned,_ precisely, about the strange stories. He only sighs a little, very heavily, and says, “There is no point in reprimanding them; I cannot avoid the men from talking of the things we have seen, as though that would make them forget; and at any rate, it is not as though I can honestly contradict them, when I have no more information myself.”

Gartner frowns. “I do not quite understand.”

“I do not know what powers the captain possesses,” says Howle very seriously. “I am not a religious man, Lieutenant Connors; yet if the men of the _Endeavour_ think it best to cover themselves with crosses, and repent their Sins instead of prostituting their money during this leave, I can only think that proper. Certainly it will do them no harm. But I do not fear mutiny; all the men will agree that it is better Captain Laurence fights with us than the opposite.” Howle gestures toward the bar. “Excuse me. It has been good to see you, Mr. Gartner.”

Gartner and Connors stand in silence as Howle exits, baffled by this extraordinary speech.

“What the devil do you suppose he meant by all that?” asks Connors at last.

And Gartner has no idea.

 


	10. so many dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragons and news and maybe a kraken?

As Laurence waits on the deserted beach he cannot help but stare at the six dragons lounging in the sand. A formation from Dover covert has been sent to meet Temeraire and, hopefully, offer advice and otherwise coordinate with them. Laurence is a bit dubious of the notion; he is not certain how they could fight together, and the captains have freely admitted that no-one in England possesses any familiarity with sea dragons.

The captains are not what he would expect, either. They greet him politely, but with a sort of lingering awkwardness. The captain of the Longwing stays near the back of group, avoiding his eyes entirely. A man named Little claims to be the senior officer, after much traded looks and tilted heads, which only leaves Laurence more dubious than before.

Because Temeraire is still a secret it is necessary for them to gather on an empty inlet. Surrounding rocks leave the area inaccessible by sea, and the aviators' crews are carefully guarding the area from any unknowing interlopers. Laurence cannot help but feel anxious, though. It will be the first time Temeraire has walked on dry land since Madeira when he was only weeks old. Even Laurence only has the vaguest notion of what the dragon will look like in his entirety.

“It must be difficult to communicate with him,” says one of the older captains, stiffly. Laurence believes his name might be Sutton. “If your entire crew is unaware...”

“I meet with him at night, as much as possible,” Laurence says. “He enjoys hearing poetry.”

Laurence pauses, flushing, because he did not mean to say that. Surely the captain asked for strategic reasons – not to hear about Temeraire's literary inclinations. Strangely, however, Sutton seems to relax.

“Oh,” says the Regal Copper, Maximus. “Is that him?”

They all turn to look.

“It is not,” says Laurence, recognizing the greenish-gray scales rippling through the sea like a snake. “Though he must not be far; he has befriended some sea-serpents, though I do not much understand his explanations of their language or customs.”

“I thought sea-serpents were beasts,” says Captain Warren.

Laurence once thought the same. “He has clearly managed to establish some communication, so I must assume they are not. I believe – yes, that is Temeraire now.”

The dragon's head appears first, larger even than Maximus'. His eyes, like those of the serpents, have that strange luminescent quality which Laurence has entirely forgotten to note; he sees now, however, that the trait is not shared between the other dragons. Temeraire's sinuous body follows the head, and then the first pair of legs appear after an age. When Temeraire starts to leave the water he slither-crawls against the shore in a way that reminds Laurence of a lizard he once saw on a far-away island; a _komodo dragon,_ it was called, though it is supposedly unrelated to the larger dragons.

Temeraire keeps slithering forward. His body is a long, unending black rope, and Laurence can well appreciate his difficulty in walking; despite the length of his torso Temeraire only has four legs. It is disorienting to watch him walk because a person's eyes _insist_ that the body must end soon. But he just keeps walking.

At last the back legs appear, and abruptly Temeraire's body starts to narrow. The end of his tail flips briefly against the ocean surface before rising. And then Temeraire is next to Laurnece, coiling the front half of his impossible body in an attempt to squeeze himself onto the suddenly-crowded shore.

The other dragons look taken aback. The Regal Copper suddenly seems to be holding its breath, puffed-out like a strongman; next to Temeraire he still looks startlingly small.

“It is very nice to meet you,” says Temeraire cheerily. “ - Laurence tells me that you cannot swim.”

“ _...Um,”_ says Captain Warren.

“They say you cannot fly,” says Lily, peering curiously at Temeraire's stubby wings. Nearby Maximus totters a little as he raises up on his hind legs, chest swollen. “Do you think swimming is similar? The ocean is large but I cannot imagine it is very exciting.”

“Oh, I thought so too at first. There are many creatures there, especially near bits of land; but sometimes it is quite near the surface. But I enjoy the deeper parts. I have found a few sunken ships, and what I think are underwater _buildings,_ although Laurence tells me those are just places where the sea has risen over the years, and that no one has ever lived underwater.” Temeraire sounds disappointed by this. “Lately I have discovered how to communicate with sea-serpents, too, which are almost like dragons; some of my friends even help us fight.”

“Oh, that is very nice,” Lily approves.

Evidently conceding defeat, Maximus deflates his chest and speaks in a sulky tone. “I do not see why you need to be so _large,_ though. Surely there is nothing to fight in the ocean.”

“Well, of course there are the ships; but I am not at all the largest creature, especially in the deep waters. I do not get to explore so much because I must stay near the Endeavour, but there are giant squids much larger than me.”

This makes even Laurence pause. “...You mean like a kraken?” he asks.

“What is a kraken?”

The explanation seems to please Temeraire. “Oh yes, that sounds quite like it. Also there are some giant whale-like creatures near the bottom, except they have large mouths and many teeth; and in some places there are swarms of jellyfish all larger than a Yellow Reaper,” here with a nod to the current guests. “And even _further_ down...”

“That is quite enough,” says Laurence hastily. The dragons lean forward in interest, but the aviators are plainly alarmed. “...In any case, I believe we were meant to discuss issues of communication - “

“Oh yes,” says the Longwing captain, with great relief, and they begin to talk.

The covert has already discussed a relay-system that will make use of couriers and Temeraire's unique abilities. The Longwing captain, Harcourt, also invites Laurence to see some drill-flying at the covert. “A pity that Temeraire would be noticed, and I do not know how much use the forms would be in water, but perhaps it will give you ideas.”

Laurence agrees. As the more pertinent matters conclude, he tries to probe the captains on more minor matters of draconic care – is it normal for dragons to like books? Is it normal for dragons to be _quite_ this violent toward people who threaten their captains? - and Temeraire tries to cajole the other dragons into the water.

“I do not want to get eaten by anything,” says Messoria suspiciously.

“The water is not deep enough here for 'kraken'. And if there _were_ bigger fish, I would scare them away.”

“Oh!” says Maximus, indignant. “Well, we are not afraid.”

But he still hesitates a moment before, huffing, he leaps suddenly into the ocean. The resulting splash sprays the entire group on-shore, causing a brief pause in the conversation.

“Oi!” Berkley roars. “Be careful, you lout!” But Maximus just snorts at him.

At least Temeraire is enjoying himself.

“I only wish we could spend some time at the covert,” Laurence confesses. “It is not right to keep him away from all other dragons – those 'sea-serpents' do not signify.”

“It is a problem,” Sutton agrees. “But he seems happy enough.”

“And if it comforts you, we have also brought news,” Harcourt tells him. The young captain's voice is shockingly high. “Admiral Lenton wants to send you a lieutenant, John Granby, to help attend any matters with Temeraire. He ought to at least be able to offer some advice, and help advise you about dragons in general.”

Laurence nods slowly. He receives this news, of course, with that skepticism inherent of any officer who does not want to be judged or managed; he knows perfectly well that this lieutenant will also be reporting back to Dover with the particulars of his and Temeraire's relationship. Yet he cannot find it in himself to be resentful; certainly if a army-man were suddenly granted captaincy of a Man-of-War, Laurence would be equally dubious.

So he accepts this news without more than a faint frown. “I look forward to meeting him,” he tells the gathered captains. “I would be glad to learn anything which might benefit Temeraire.”

The captains seem much warmed toward him, a fact that strikes Laurence as significant. The group turns at a sudden sound; out on the water one of the Yellow Reapers yelps. Temeraire calls, “No, no, do not _eat_ the jellyfish!”

Laurence sighs.

 

 


End file.
